


Bad Butterflies

by RunningHaunted



Series: Kindred [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, At least he tries, Canon Divergence, Drunk!Jaskier, Geralt uses his brain for once, Jaskier has massive self esteem issues, Jaskier is being his usual idiotic self, M/M, OR IS IT, Roach is losing her damn mind, Small Amounts of Fluff, Symbolism and metaphors to the max, Witchers, also, also the romance, and I think at this point we can label it a mental health issue, it backfires, it only lasts a second tho, lol they’re disasters, manipulative!Geralt, renfri would like to slap them all, somebody please get Yennefer because these idiots will die without her, spectacularly, stregobor is fucking with everyone‘s lives, the angst gets turned up a notch, what’s up with Jaskier’s marbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningHaunted/pseuds/RunningHaunted
Summary: Jaskier gets spectacularly drunk.Geralt tries to take advantage and needle some much needed information from the bard.It goes about as well as expected, because nobody ever takes Roach‘s advice to just TALK, DAMMIT!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Kindred [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584472
Comments: 107
Kudos: 1003





	Bad Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> I‘m not entirely happy with how this turned out but I will post it anyway because it ties in with everything else I‘ve got planned. This story might have about five more installments or so... maybe. Still don’t have most things planned out xD
> 
> Again, you guys are all so awesome for leaving comments! I appreciate each and every one of them. They‘re the reason this story has even gotten this far in the first place! <3 I haven’t replied to all the comments of the last part yet but I plan on doing so once this part is up. I don’t want to keep you guys waiting any longer, especially if you actually enjoy this disaster of an angst fest. <3
> 
> Note: NOT PROOF READ OR EDITED AS OF YET!!!

Jaskier isn’t sure what time it is, but he’s pretty certain that they’re still a good while away from dawn. 

Which is good, because that means he’s got some more time before Geralt will want to head out and search for monsters to kill. Well, apart from the monster in his company. 

He’d lost track of time after his fifth pint of ale and is now in the process of chugging his sixth. (His mother, gods rest her soul, would be mortified.)

There’s a body pressed to his side, all soft curves and sugar and it’s not what Jaskier wants but the girl is nice enough and she’s been clinging to him since he’d reentered the tavern and.... (and Geralt had been gone. Of course. Probably having his own kind of fun in some bed with a woman whose name he doesn’t even- no. Stop.) and Jaskier thinks, why not? 

It’s a temporary relief, but a relief all the same and it’s not like Geralt will fucking  care. 

He sets the cup down sluggishly, his mind hazy with alcohol and a an aching kind of desperation where he doesn’t know whether he’s going to cry or start smashing things. 

So Jaskier turns to the girl, smiling sweetly as her brown brown eyes light up. The next moment she stands on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth against his and Jaskier can’t deny that it feels good. The weight of another against his, warmth that can only warm him skin-deep but it’s better than the cold. 

He lets her press against him, run her hands all over his body, does the same in return and- it’s not what he wants at all. 

The realization makes him want to laugh because, really, Geralt had ruined him for anybody else without even meaning to. 

“You’re pretty” he slurs against her mouth, because she is, but she’s soft and sweet and exactly not what he’s looking for. 

The girl giggles, running her hands up and down his arms. “How about we take this up to your room?” She asks, hot breath against his ear. 

„Hmhm” Jaskier replies, objections dying on the tip of his tongue as his thoughts float away from him again like elusive mist. How bad can it be, anyway? 

The bard let’s himself be dragged away from the relatively calm corner they’d occupied, towards the stairs leading to the rooms. 

It’s loud and full in the tavern despite the late hour, drunk men cajoling songs (completely butchering the melody) and- wow, the room is spinning.

He feels dizzy. How had Renfri ever managed her alcohol so well? 

Jaskier doesn’t remember how he’d gotten to the stairs but when he almost falls on his face while stumbling over the first step he knows the ale hadn’t been as bad as it tasted.

He’s led upstairs, guided by the hand steadily dragging him forward, stealing a kiss every now and then until they’re down the hall and she has him pressed against the door, looking up at him with doe eyes. “Is this your room?”

Jaskier doesn’t know. He doesn’t care, honestly, so he just hums and dips his head to nip at the girl‘s (Jess‘s? Joanna‘s?) throat, eliciting a high pitched giggle as one of her hands slip beneath his shirt and-

And Jaskier doesn’t feel a thing. There’s no desire, no heat. No want pooling low in his gut.

He faintly wonders when he’d stopped finding comfort in this. Rolling out of one bed in the morning, tumbling right into the next, running from scorend lovers. 

„It’s not“

Right, around the time he’d met the boulder of a Witcher currently toweringbehind them with his arms crossed, looking like someone had just taken a dump on his dinner. 

The girl (Giannia?) jumps away from Jaskier like she’d seen a ghost, beet red. “We were just about to-“

“Leave.” Geralt interrupts, leveling her with a stare that would make a manticore run for the hills. 

The girl hesitates, seemingly contemplating her chances of winning an argument against Geralt, before she visibly deflates and wisely leaves, shooting Jaskier a mournful look. 

Jaskier, for his part, is miffed. But also mildly turned on. 

„Geralt wha‘the fuck?“ he slurs, trying to resist rather pathetically as the Witcher pushes him through the door. 

Jaskier stumbles a few steps as he’s abruptly let go, catching himself against the bed frame. His shin hits the ebony wood and the pain sobers him up some. 

Geralt just glares at him. 

It’s not his usual glower, all bark and no bite, this one is menacing, angry; barely restrained fury wanting to break free. 

„What, s‘this foreplay?“

„Dammit Jaskier!“

The bard‘s mouth snaps shut with a click. He winces when he accidentally bites his tongue in the process. 

Geralt sniffs, annoyance warring with anger. 

„What the fuck were you thinking?“

„Well, I thought gettin‘ laid might-„

„About leaving the tavern! Alone!“

„I‘m not a child!“ Jaskier barks, then backtracks, pales. „Y‘know?“

„Of course I know!“ Geralt snarls, stalking forward. „Of course I fucking know, Jaskier!“

The bard is stunned into silence. 

Then, he laughs. 

Jaskier laughs right into Geralt‘s face, making that face of his twist and contort into a furious mask. 

For one maddening, hysterical second Jaskier wonders if that’s the last thing Renfri saw and has to laugh even harder. 

„Y’know _nothing_.“ he gasps, tipping forward in search of purchase which he finds on Geralt‘s shirt. Geralt, who’s staring at him like Jaskier has lost his mind. 

He might as well have. 

Jaskier lifts an unsteady hand to pat Geralt‘s cheek. He almost misses and ends up hitting the Witcher’s temple on the first try. 

Geralt barely misses a beat before his own hand closes in a vice like grip around Jaskier‘s wrist, painfully tight. 

„Is this a joke to you?“ Geralt hisses, shaking him slightly. „What the fuck were you doing with Stregobor!?“

„Planning my inevitable doom.“ Jaskier deadpans, then grins lopsidedly. „So, is this foreplay?“

Geralt looks inexplicably sick, the lines of his face drawn together. The grip around Jaskier‘s wrist wavers and transfers to his upper arm. 

And, shit, this manhandling is kinda turning him on. 

More than anything Jenna (?) had done before, which, yeah, Jaskier is totally gone on Geralt. 

Go figures. 

„-skier!“

Jaskier startles, realizing that Geralt must have been talking to him. 

„Hm?“

The Witcher‘s eyes are narrowed, thin slits of molten gold that track every micro-expression. 

„Geralt, my friend, your eyes are fucking beautiful.“

The Witcher’s face goes lax from shock before immediately returning to its usual scowl. This time, however, there’s a grim sort of determination behind it. 

One that immediately makes Jaskier suspicious. 

The suspicion floats away from him like a fever dream only moments later though, when he gets distracted by the dangling medallion around Geralt‘s neck. 

A wolf, a star, and some kind of bird engraved into silver. He wonders what they mean. 

„Jaskier“ Geralt says, leaning down slightly, bringing his face closer to the bard‘s. „What doom?“

Jaskier‘s pretty sure Geralt is putting his mouth into easy-to-reach kissing distance on purpose, vanishing all coherent thought (or filter) from his mind as he keeps staring at the Witcher’s chapped lips because... yes... they do look rather kissable... and maybe Geralt won’t mind all that much-

„Nothin‘ important“ Jaskier murmurs, leaning in closer until their breath is starting to mingle. 

Geralt‘s pupils are blown wide, no apparent sign of alcohol clouding the vigilant gaze. The grip around his upper arm isn‘t hard enough to bruise anymore, more support than anything. 

There’s a hint of sharp, sharp teeth as Geralt licks his lips, tilting his head to one side inquisitively. 

„How do you know Stregobor?“ he murmurs. Jaskier can feel the rumble in the other‘s chest, the deep baritone reverberating like its own song, growling through a taut throat. 

It‘s enticing, the way his skin stretches over muscle, inhuman strength coiled beneath very human skin, and Jaskier‘s remaining resolve melts away like butter. As does his caution. 

Kissing Geralt is nothing short of addictive, and judging by the low, guttural sound the Witcher emits, Jaskier‘s not doing such a bad job himself. 

That doesn’t change the fact that Geralt stiffens beneath Jaskier like he’s been turned to stone, however, and he’s thankfully not too gone on both booze and desire that he doesn’t notice it. 

When he backs up though he’s barely taken a step before Geralt‘s back in his personal space, kissing him like the world‘s ending. 

Jaskier can feel the telltale sharpness of Geralt‘s teeth against his lips as they tug ever so softly, begging entrance which the bard grants readily. 

Calloused hands grip his hips, burying themselves in the soft skin there and Jaskier keens. He can feel how much Geralt‘s holding back, hands almost trembling with suppressed strength and it makes the bard dizzy _dizzy_ **_dizzy_** with want. 

Jaskier presses closer, his fingers still tangled in Geralt’s shirt. He tastes like a night out in the rain, flames fighting to stay alive under the onslaught of raindrops. Like pine, ale, the thrill of a first kill, but so, so gentle. 

And it’s hysterical, really, because Jaskier knows he doesn’t deserve gentle. Had known it back on the mountain, when Geralt sent him away. Knows it now, even with the amount of alcohol currently coursing through his veins.

But when Geralt still touches and kisses him like he’s gonna break at any moment, he loses his patience and swipes his tongue deliberately over the Witcher’s sharp canines, hissing against Geralt‘s mouth as the blood wells up and he tastes copper. 

The intent behind the gesture backfires spectacularly as Geralt jerks back, making Jaskier whine unhappily. 

The angry expression is back on the Geralt‘s face, his lips pulled back as if in a snarl; they’re bloodied, and Jaskier grins. 

But the explosion, and the angry making out session he’d been hoping for, doesn’t come. Instead, Geralt looks tired, sighing as he steps back completely, leaving the bard suddenly cold. 

He’d made a mistake. 

„Sleep, Jaskier.“

Jaskier snorts incredulously, collapsing onto the bed gracelessly. The adrenaline suddenly gone. „What, that’s it? That’s the foreplay?“

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning his back to Jaskier as he proceeds to lock the door and rummage through his bags. „You’re drunk.“

Jaskier blinks, a wayward thought entering his head through the alcohol induced haze. „So, is this the part where I‘m supposed to run?“ 

Because he’s not going to. He never had any intention of doing so, when it comes to this. 

Though Geralt probably won’t kill him where he intends to spend the night, so... there’s that. 

„You can try.“ Geralt replies, faint sliver of humor entering the gruff voice. 

Jaskier can’t help but chuckle, flinging his arms across the expanse of the mattress, studying the wooden swirls of the ceiling with disinterest. 

His throat feels dry, parched from the ale and he knows instinctively that the hangover will not be pleasant. 

„T‘be honest, I‘d thought you’d deck me for kissin‘ you.“ he says after a while, when his brain reminds him that, yes, he actually did do that. And he’d like a repeat performance. As soon as the room stops spinning. 

Geralt doesn’t answer, moving in Jaskier‘s peripheral like a wraith. 

The bard lifts a hand, holding it before his eyes to inspect the sun tanned flesh. 

Laughter from long ago rolls like marbles around in his head, makes thinking hard again. 

When he blinks, he sees Renfri leaning over the edge of the bed, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. 

She‘s gone when Jaskier blinks again, and the bard huffs, let‘s his hand drop back to the duvet. 

He thinks of the halls they’d roamed once upon a time. In a castle that had been home until Stregobor sent a man to kill his sister. 

He wonders if the tree they’d planted is still standing. 

It‘s a muted kind of anguish that comes with the memories, not unlike scars that heal all gnarled and twisted. 

Geralt sits down beside him, the bed dipping under the Witcher’s weight. There’s a flask being pressed to Jaskier‘s mouth and he swallows instinctively. And promptly scrunches his nose when he merely tastes water. 

“Blergh.“

“Quit whining. Drink.”

Jaskier complies, albeit unhappily. Logically, he knows that his body needs the liquid but... experiencing everything like through a veil is.. nice. He doesn’t want it to go away yet. 

When the flask is finally, blessedly empty Geralt puts it on the night stand and begins tugging off Jaskier’s boots. The bard giggles, “My, G’ralt, if youwanted me undressed you could’ve said.”

Geralt snorts, otherwise not replying, then shrugs out of his own boots and lays down beside Jaskier, taking extra care as to not accidentally touch the bard. 

Jaskier, of course, can’t let that stand. He rolls over, throwing an arm over Geralt’s own and presses his face against the firm plane of the Witcher’s bicep.

Geralt shifts as if to move away at first, then relaxes with a sigh, seemingly resigning himself to his fate. 

Jaskier smiles, content. 

The swords leaning against the wall gleam, the golden shine of the brooch atop the silver sword almost like a smiling face. 

„I’m glad you kept her brooch.“ Jaskier mumbles, eyes fluttering shut as Geralt‘s warmth sinks down into his bones. It‘s a strange kind of peace. One that he’d been yearning for, effectively silencing the the thoughts rolling like marbles around in his head. 

He‘s asleep before he can notice the Witcher stiffen beside him. 

——

Fuck, Geralt thinks. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks again, this time with feeling. 

The first time he’d let slip as a coincidence. Jaskier could have gotten Stregobor‘s name from anybody. 

Jaskier meeting up with  Stregobor... alarm bells had rung with a deafening intensity in his brain. The moment that the bard had actually lunged at the mage with a knife though... when had he acquired a knife in the first place? Why had he attacked? 

Geralt had cursed whatever spell had kept him from hearing their words in that moment. 

But Jaskier recognizing the brooch he’d kept attached to his sword since Blaviken... 

Geralt swallows, dread curling like a snake low in his gut. He can still taste Jaskier on his lips, cornflower, dandelions, something distinctly Jaskier, and the coppery tang of his blood.

He knows the bard had done it on purpose (and _gods_ , the vile thing sitting just under his skin had howled and _begged_ to be free, to possess and maim and consume-) and giving in would have been so, so _easy_. 

But his first mistake had been to stop Jaskier from going with that girl, and Geralt is man enough to admit that interrupting them had been nothing but jealousy on his part. 

Needling answers out of the bard might even have been easier had he not intercepted but... 

_But nothing_ , Geralt thinks angrily. His attachment to the bard had started to cloud his judgment. The affection for him burrowing itself deep into the cavern he’d used to readily proclaim void of a heart. 

_Or maybe_ , he thinks, _Jaskier had taken a piece of his own heart, cut it out and stuffed it between Geralt‘s ribs. Gods know the bard has more heart and soul than most humans._

Still, he’d been trying to piece Jaskier‘s past together by all the meager scraps he’s being thrown for months now. And he doesn’t like the picture that’s slowly coming into focus. 

Jaskier shifts against him, pressing his face more firmly against Geralt‘s arm. He looks at peace like this; young.

Geralt grinds his teeth. Jaskier isn’t aging. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed, but it’s so much easier to pretend not to because humans that don’t age aren’t, by any witcher’s definition, human. And if Jaskier isn’t human he must be something else and- 

The bard‘s insistence on Geralt killing him- it makes him nauseous to think about all that it implies. 

Geralt closes his eyes briefly, listens to Jaskier’s slow, rhythmic breathing and the calm beat of his heart. The fragrance of dandelions wafting off him, sunshine and summer rain, is something he can’t even sleep properly without anymore. (And fishing for another Djinn is really something he’d like to avoid.)

The monster-beast-thing whimpers softly, torn between its ever present urge to sink its teeth into anything that might be a threat and to protect what is so clearly theirs. 

Geralt has a sneaking suspicion as to how Jaskier seems to be so intimately familiar with both Stregobor and Renfri. 

He hopes he’s wrong. 

Gods, does he hope. 

He looks at Jaskier, the way brown strands of hair fall askew on the pillow, how his hands are curled into loose fists beside Geralt’s ribs-

He will kill Stregobor before he has the chance to touch Jaskier. 

The last time around he had chosen not to pick sides. 

This time, he doesn’t have to make a conscious decision at all. 

——

Jaskier wakes up to a pounding headache anda parched throat. 

He groans, rolling over with some effort to blink blearily across the room to where Geralt just finishes tying a bundle of provisions together. 

The Witcher looks up at the sound and raises a derogatory eyebrow. 

“Don’t even start.” Jaskier bites out. 

His stomach rumbles ominously, as if to scold the bard. 

Geralt scoffs, throwing his hand out and something silver flies through the air. Right towards his beautiful face. 

Jaskier catches it on instinct, hand shooting out to fetch the object mid flight. 

It’s a small vial with a foggy liquid inside, sloshing aroundwith each movement. 

“And that is...?”

Geralt looks at him strangely before he hums, turning back to his bags. “For the headache.”

Jaskier uncorks the tiny bottle, mustering it dubiously. He shrugs and knocks it back, grimacing at the bitter taste. 

“Blergh, you know, you could totally make this better by putting some mint leaves in there.”

“Mint leaves make the entire potion useless.”

“Naturally...”

He lies back for a few minutes, letting the concoction soothe his upset stomach as an odd thought enters his mind. 

“Hey, Geralt.”

“Hm”

“Didn’t we have separate rooms?”

Geralt stops momentarily, currently in the process reattaching Renfri’s brooch to the hilt. “What do you remember from last night?”

Jaskier blinks. 

He remembers getting absolutely smashed after that disaster with Stregobor, going back to the tavern, making out with a girl and— 

Jaskier keeps his expression carefully blank, screaming internally because- because- 

Fuck!

He’d actually kissed Geralt. 

And- and- how had Geralt reacted? Did he kiss back? Did he push him away? Fuck, Jaskier can’t remember. But his spinal cord is still intact, so...

Oh gods...

“I was drunk.” The bard offers as a way of explanation. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and gets up. “No shit.”

Jaskier sucks nervously on his lower lip, slightly perplexed by the sharp sting of pain emanating from his tongue. Had he bitten himself?

Gods, hopefully he hadn’t let anything slip... 

Suddenly, without warning, Geralt dumps something hard yet light in his lap and Jaskier flails in surprise before he recognizes his beloved lute. 

He clutches it to his chest, oddly touched that the Witcher had gone through the trouble of retrieving it from the room that had been intended for his occupation. 

“Thanks.” Jaskier says, smiling brightly and genuinely at Geralt. 

Geralt holds his stare, his pupils mere slits in the harsh morning light streaming through the blinds. 

Funnily enough, the Witcher looks away first to shoulder the packs and strap his swords to his back. “Hurry up. I want to get out of this town.”

And with that, Jaskier is left alone in the room with a slowly subsiding headache and marbles rolling ominously through his mind. 

_ Time’s up, time’s up, skip the hour, skip the day.... _

A children’s rhyme. They sound suspiciously like his sister. 

_ Time’s up, time’s up, ready or not, here I come... _

He clambers off the bed and after Geralt whenhe can take it no more. 

_ Time’s up... _

Jaskier tries to make sense of the stiff atmosphere as they trudge through the woods. 

Dark clouds hang overhead, and even though it’s only midday Jaskier has to strain his eyes to see properly when they pass underneath particularly thick tree canopies. 

He has to do double takes every now and then, thinking he’d seen brown hair swish- never mind.

It’s just the trees, Roach, Geralt and Jaskier. 

Roach has been nervous since they’d left the town, breaking out into uneasy neighs every now and then. 

Even Geralt’s soothing words can’t calm her.

And, okay, perhaps Jaskier isn’t making it all that better with not chattering like he usually would, but he just can’t find it in him to do more than hum the occasional tune, the lute strapped to his back. 

Because... he... he doesn’t even know? 

Gods, it’s like something’s trying to deep fry his brain. Thinking fucking _hurts_. 

„-kier.“

Jaskier startles. „What?“

Geralt furrows his eyebrows, a deeply displeased look crossing his face. „Is the potion not working?“

„Wh- oh! Oh no, it is! I‘m just... thinking.“

„So it really hasn’t worked...“

Jaskier points a menacing finger at Geralt. „You keep that up, witcher, and the next song will be about your atrocious manners!“

„What would you know about my manners?“ Geralt replies, mirth dancing across his features for an instance. 

„You‘ll find out, dearest wolf, you’ll find out.“

Roach snorts violently from where she’s trotting slowly beside Geralt, leveling the bard with an incredulous stare. 

Jaskier throws his arms up dramatically. „Alriiiight! No badmouthing your master. Got it.“ 

That seems to placate the mare and she goes back to watching the deer grazing far between the trees, their dark eyes never leaving the small group in case they pose a danger. 

Jaskier thinks he spots a black doe amidst the herd, head up, beady orbs staring straight at (through?) him with an intensity that’s unnerving. 

„So, any prospective contracts?“ he asks absentmindedly, trying to find the doe again but failing. 

Geralt hmm‘s. „Some town might have problems with a Night Raven.“ he says gruffly, taking a sharp left without warning when they reach a couple birch trees, leaving the path with quick strides. 

„Geralt! Where are you going?“

Jaskier curses when his sleeve catches on a bramble bush, wasting precious seconds to untangle himself in which he almost loses sight of the mop of white hair. 

„Dammit-„ 

The bard frees himself with a yelp, mournfully inspecting the expensive cloth which now has an ugly tear in it. 

Geralt was sooooo buying him a new jacket. 

After the mortification of Jaskier quite literally throwing himself at the Witcher wears off.

Which, yeah, what had even lead up to this point? His impulse control is practically nonexistent, granted, but still... even inebriated beyond compare wouldn’t have made the bard just throw himself at Geralt... probably. 

A bird shrieks in the tree tops above him and Jaskier looks up. Of course, he doesn’t see anything but he thinks he recognizes the shrill call anyway. 

„I swear if he doesn’t have a valid reason for storming off I will skewer him!“ he hisses, quickly checking his pants for any loose threads. 

The marbles click and scatter like mocking laughter. 

There’s a small rustle to his left and Jaskier surges around with an indignant „Geralt!“, ready to give the witcher a nice talking to, when the scraping of metal hits his ears, followed by a flash amber. 

And Jaskier remembers. 

_ Geralt‘s pupils are blown wide... There’s a hint of sharp, sharp teeth as Geralt licks his lips, tilting his head to one side inquisitively.  _

_ „How do you know Stregobor?“ _

No

No.. oh _gods_ , no....

Geralt had followed him. 

The kiss. Geralt had been trying to get more info-

Oh gods, oh gods oh godsohgodsohgods- how much did Geralt hear? Does he know about Renfri? 

The panic floods him like a tidal wave, drowning out every other coherent thought for a nanosecond. 

Had the hangover potion really been just that? Is Geralt already drawing conclusions-

The nanosecond takes too long, still, for when his vision returns it‘s due to another sharp cry of the bird high in the trees. 

The panic about being discovered gives way to terror, because- 

There’s a blade, swinging with blinding speed towards his throat. Familiar, golden slanted eyes staring out at him from an unfamiliar face. 

Jaskier screams. 

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome! Please let me know what you thought of this installment and the characters and what you think might happen next. (nooooo, it‘s definitely not because I don’t know myself... not at all *sweats nervously*)
> 
> ALSO, coming up, more parallels and repeat, feat. Geralt freaking the fuck out.


End file.
